Sufficient Unto the Day
by Squibstress
Summary: The Reverend Robert McGonagall never would have guessed he'd spend Christmas surrounded by wizards and witches in a magical castle. But when an illness forces him to spend the holiday at Hogwarts, he finds that magic isn't quite what he's imagined, and his unexpected discoveries provide a chance to reconcile with his daughter, Minerva.
1. Chapter 1

If anyone had asked the Reverend Robert Fingal McGonagall ten years ago what he'd be doing on the third Saturday of Advent in the year of our Lord 1990, he might have laid even odds on "thumbing the harp wi' the angels." Or, in his darker moments, "toasting my toes wi' Black Donald."

Irrespective of the eventual disposition of his soul, however, he would never have guessed "riding in a carriage pulled by a beastie resembling a horse turned inside out."

Yet here he was, cheeks numb with cold, nose running, and his eyes watering with a surprising excitement as he was whisked across a snow-dusted path at some speed.

The village receded in the distance behind them, and he looked back, the soft glow from the cottages and the candles in the trees drawing his eyes once again. It was beautiful in a way he remembered from his boyhood Christmases in Cromarty.

"Are you warm enough, Dad?"

Minerva's concerned voice broke through his hazy reminiscence.

"Oh, aye."

Nevertheless, she tucked the rug a little tighter around him.

"Stop it. I promise I'll not freeze to death before we get to your school."

He hadn't intended to be so sharp, but her fussing over him as if he were a wee bairn was driving him round the twist.

Minerva's anxiety had been simmering below her composed surface since she'd met him in London for the trip on the Hogwarts Express. They'd argued yet again over the transportation — he still didn't quite understand why they couldn't just get the train from Wick to Inverness or whatever local station was closest to the school, then hire a car to take them the rest of the way. Apparently, though, cars couldn't get there, but Minerva had been mum on exactly why.

So, after spending two days getting to London, with the very necessary help of his game housekeeper, Mrs McGregor, he'd met Minerva, and the two of them had wasted an exhausting nine hours travelling back north on very nearly the same mist-shrouded route he'd just traversed.

The train itself had been a pleasant surprise. He knew, vaguely, that witches and wizards had their own means of getting around, and he'd worried about what sort of transportation Minerva had arranged, but when she'd brought him to King's Cross, he'd relaxed.

They'd been on the verge of a row when she'd taken his arm and told him to shut his eyes, but in the end, he'd done as she asked, and they seemingly went only a few steps before she told him to open his eyes.

A bright red steam engine had greeted him. It had been so like the first big train he'd ever taken, from Inverness to Aberdeen, and for a moment, he'd been a wide-eyed nineteen again, flush with the excitement of the big city and the prospect of four years of divinity studies ahead of him. Much more elegant than the snub-nosed ScotRail diesel engines that ran between Wick and Inverness these days.

He'd been so absurdly pleased that he'd barely noticed when he'd been whisked up, seemingly by invisible arms, into the carriage.

But the journey had been long, and the uncomfortable silences between him and Minerva had grown heavier as the hours stretched out, the awkwardness increased by the fact that they appeared to be the only people on the train.

Reverend McGonagall didn't care much for extravagance, and the idea of a bespoke train ride just to get his malfunctioning carcass to his daughter's place of dwelling and employment galled, especially after the expense of his and Mrs McGregor's fares and lodgings on the way to London.

The carriage that met them at the station, and the creature that pulled it, had been a less pleasant surprise, but Robert was too exhausted by the journey to make a fuss.

As they sped through the crisp evening air, he said, "I hope Mrs McGregor gets back to Wick all right," more to have something to say than out of any actual concern for the redoubtable woman who'd been cooking and keeping house for him since Isobel's death.

"How is she?" Minerva asked.

"Well enough."

"It was kind of her to bring you to London."

"She was glad to do it. Says it took her mind off things. It's a hard time of year for her."

"Hard for all of us."

"True enough."

He was sorry to have mentioned it. Neither he nor Minerva needed reminding of their own losses.

Changing the subject, he asked, "What sort of animal did you say this is?"

"A Thestral. They're really quite gentle, despite their appearance."

"And those are wings on its back?"

"Yes."

"It can fly?"

"Yes."

He said nothing more, attempting to digest the fact of a flying skeletal horse. He couldn't help feeling it boded ill for the visit.

They rode in silence for several minutes until they came to a large, rusted gate, abutted on either side by crumbling pillars and tall, bramble-covered walls.

A sign read: "NO TRESPASSING KEEP OUT! EXTREME DANGER OF DEATH! I'D TURN BACK IF I WERE YOU!"

"Welcoming sort of place," he said drily.

Minerva pursed her lips. "I'll just be a moment."

She hopped down out of the carriage and went to the gate. Her back was to him, so he couldn't see what she was doing in the low light from the torches on the carriage, but a moment later, there was a piercing sound as the gate squeaked shrilly open.

Minerva got back in beside him, and the carriage passed through the gate.

The scent of pine grew strong in his nose as they trotted up the path, and the trees that flanked them grew thicker.

Beyond the other side of the path, he could just make out the inky blackness of a loch, and as they progressed up the promontory, the path's western edge fell away into a vertiginous slope.

He looked down the side of the carriage to see how close to the edge they might be.

Too close, by his reckoning.

Minerva's hand fell on his arm.

"It's all right, Dad. The Thestral knows what he's doing."

_I'm glad someone does, he thought._

Coming here was probably a mistake, after all this time, but the awful truth was, he'd nowhere else to go this Christmastide, with Malcolm in America, and his granddaughter and grandsons scattered to the winds and too busy to bother with a sick old man.

Besides, they didn't understand his way of life, nor he theirs. Only Rabbie, his sweet, sweet boy, had chosen to follow his dad into the kirk. And he was in his grave, thanks to a sudden heart attack, as best the Edinburgh Crown Office could determine.

Robert didn't believe it for a moment. A hale man didn't drop dead of heart attack at age forty-one. Minerva had only said that wizards usually died of different things than did non-magical folk, and that it was best to let the procurator general believe there was a history of heart disease in the family and list "myocardial infarction" on the death certificate. But a peculiar stench Robert suspected was magic had pervaded Rab's home for weeks afterwards, and none of Minerva's stick-waving could dispel it.

If Rab hadn't been carried off by whatever it was that left him lying on his kitchen floor, eyes wide open and not a mark on him, he'd likely have had his father sorted long before the Parkinson's had progressed to the point where he couldn't be trusted to live on his own and had to burden his busy daughter with a visit neither of them could pretend to want this holiday.

The carriage went over something and jostled them. Robert looked up, his breath catching in his chest. Rising above them in the distance was a magnificent gothic castle. The light that glowed from the windows in the towers gave it a warm, welcoming feeling, almost as if he were coming home.

Absurd thought.

He glanced over at Minerva, who was looking at him, the ghost of a knowing smile on her face.

He looked away from her and cleared his throat.

By the time they'd reached the castle foregrounds, the warm feeling had grown, although the winds that whipped them as they crossed the long, wooden bridge had made his nose start up again.

"Oi, there, Professor McGonagall! Over 'ere!"

"Merciful heaven!" Robert gasped before he could stop himself.

Standing in front of the oak doors, waving a lantern, was the largest man he had ever seen. He had to be ten feet tall and half again as wide, and his wiry hair and beard stuck out wildly in all directions.

The carriage rolled to a stop near the doors. The man laid an enormous hand on the beastie's head. Despite his rather frightening appearance, his words were soft.

"Ah, there's a good boy," he said as he petted the animal's skull. Robert watched, fascinated, as the man slipped a hand into the pocket of his coat and pulled out what looked suspiciously like a raw steak. He offered it to the beast, who gobbled it down, snorting. Robert shuddered when the thing's tongue darted out to lick the juice from the big man's hand.

The man wiped the hand on his coat and held it out to help Minerva from the carriage.

"Good trip, Professor?"

"Yes, thank you, Hagrid, and thanks for having the carriage meet us. It was very helpful."

"My pleasure. Orcus is always ready for a bit of a trot, aren't you, boy?" He patted the creature on its skeletal flank, and it whinnied, a thin, papery sound.

"Hagrid, this is my father, the Reverend Robert McGonagall. Dad, this is Rubeus Hagrid, our groundskeeper."

"Pleasure to meet you, sir," the big man said, holding out his hand.

Robert hesitated before relinquishing his hand into the slab-like paw that was proffered, but when he did, the handshake was surprisingly gentle.

"The pleasure is mine, Mr Hagrid."

"Just 'Hagrid', if you please, Reverend. It's what everyone calls me."

"Hagrid, then."

"Can I help you down, sir?"

Robert glanced at Minerva, who gave him an encouraging nod.

"That's very kind, thank you."

Hagrid reached into the carriage and lifted Robert right out of it, setting him carefully on his feet.

"Er … thank you."

"This your trunk?" Hagrid didn't wait for an answer but lifted Robert's battered bag from the carriage with one hand and set it down on the steps to the castle doors.

"I'd best see Orcus back to 'is pen," he told Minerva. "If you hurry, you'll be in time for dinner in the Great Hall."

Hagrid led the animal off, and Robert remembered too late he'd forgotten his cane.

"My stick …" he muttered.

"What was that, Dad?"

"My stick. I'm afraid I've left it in the carriage."

"It's all right." Minerva turned in the direction Hagrid had gone. "_Accio cane."_

Robert tensed when the item in question came sailing through the air into Minerva's waiting hand.

He remembered the first time he'd seen Minerva do something similar, before he'd known about _it._ She'd been about four and having a bit of a strop.

Robert had been reading some scripture aloud for his family, but Minerva had wanted _Moorland Mousie. _She'd climbed from her stool and retrieved her preferred book, turning the pages to look at the illustrations and humming loudly to indicate her distaste for her father's choice of reading material. He'd sighed, put down his Bible, and taken the book gently from his daughter's hands, saying something about it being unsuitable for Sunday evening. No sooner had he set it on a high shelf than it had whizzed right past his nose and back into Minerva's hands.

He'd nearly fainted.

He would never forget the expression on Isobel's face when he looked over at her. There'd been shock, certainly, and worry … but also unmistakable pride, and Robert had known in that moment that his life was about to change irrevocably.

He hadn't seen any of his children do _it_ since Rabbie had been a boy. The unspoken rule of the McGonagall family home – no magic in front of your father – had rarely been broken.

There had been moments in their marriage when he'd wanted desperately to ask Isobel about _it_, about what she could do with _it_, but the fear of what the knowledge might do to him, to his knowledge of the world, and to their marriage, had kept the words stuck in his chest.

Cane in hand, and his other arm supported by Minerva, Robert entered the castle.

He sighed audibly when he saw the enormous staircase that he would no doubt have to climb to get to his daughter's rooms.

"Don't worry, Dad," Minerva said. "We can—"

"I'm not going to be … _magicked_ up and down the stairs. I can manage on my own."

"You might change your tune when they start moving," she snapped. Then she sighed. "I wasn't going to suggest Levitating you. We can use the door from my office. It's a magical door, but I won't have to cast any spells on you, and it will take us directly to my quarters. Which are in Gryffindor _Tower_."


	2. Chapter 2

There was nothing overtly magical about Minerva's quarters, Robert was pleased to see. Her living space was small but looked comfortable enough. She had a sitting room, a study, and a bedroom with an _en-suite bath, which she insisted he use during his stay. She would sleep in the study, she said._

Robert was again reminded of his boyhood when she informed him that there was no electricity in Hogwarts, so he would have to rely on the lanterns and matches she'd left on the bedside table and in the sitting room and bath. She'd have to light the sconces and candelabras by magic, she said.

"And best to let me manage the fireplace," she added. "It's … got some quirks."

He looked around. There were no radiators or other means to heat the place that he could see, but it felt plenty warm despite the lack of a fire.

"You'll let me know if you get cold," she said.

"I'll be fine."

"There's dinner in the Great Hall, if you're up to it. If not, I could just have Jemmy bring up a tray."

"I can come down."

She nodded.

"I expect you'd like a wash-up first. There are fresh towels and flannels in the bath."

~oOo~

The Great Hall of Hogwarts was one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen.

Candles floated in the air above them, giving the enormous room a warm, homey feel, and he was pleased to find that the perimeter was lined with Christmas trees bedecked in multicoloured ornaments and garlands. The red-and-gold-decorated trees, and the green and silver, he would have expected with the season, but there were also enormous Scots pines fitted out in unexpected blue and bronze, and even yellow and black, and they didn't seem at all out of place, somehow.

"Dad?"

"Hmm?"

"Look up," she said softly.

Above them was a night sky speckled with brilliant constellations of stars against an inky blue-black that seemed endless. He spotted Orion immediately, of course, and Gemini and Taurus. But …

"Ophiuchus?" he whispered.

"Yes. It's Albus's favourite, so he always includes it, even in the winter."

A flurry of snow began to fall, but it never reached them, only fluttered down from the starlit sky and evaporated before it could dampen the room's occupants.

It was all so incredibly lovely, but it also made Robert feel odd, as if he'd been swept up by an unseen force and dropped on an alien planet similar to his own but with enough differences to keep him off-kilter. He supposed that was, more or less, what had happened.

As they approached the head table, Minerva's hand protectively on her father's arm, a tall, long-haired and bearded man Robert recognised as Albus Dumbledore stood. He looked both very different and very much the same as the first time Robert had seen him, dressed in a sombre black suit — an oddly cut one, but still a suit — at Rab's funeral.

Robert had been touched that Dumbledore had come to the non-magical service. He felt a frisson of shame at having taken Minerva's advice not to come to Elphinstone's funeral a few years later. "It's going to be a big magical affair, I'm afraid," she'd said, and he'd known it was her way of giving him an out.

Dumbledore gestured to the empty chair to his right. "Reverend McGonagall! I'm so pleased you could join us this year! Come, there's a seat for you beside Minerva's." Another chair shimmered into being between Dumbledore's and the one next to it.

Minerva's hand tightened a little on his arm as she helped him up to the table.

After the Headmaster had introduced Robert to the others, Robert was startled by the sudden appearance of large platters and dishes of food. One moment, they hadn't been there, the next …

The aromas were dizzyingly tempting, and he was hungry, but a twinge of anxiety held him back as the others began serving themselves juice-dripping slices of roast beef and buttery hunks of Yorkshire pudding. Was it quite _right_ to be eating food that had been _magicked_ into being?

He was startled again to hear Minerva murmur beside him, "Lord, bless these gifts to our use and us to thy loving service, and keep us ever mindful of the needs of others. Amen."

Tears sprang to his eyes as he remembered all the times Isobel had said this blessing over their table in the manse in Keiss. He wondered if Minerva had said it for his benefit. He glanced at her and saw she was now in quiet conversation with the sallow, sour-looking man to her right, whose name he couldn't recall. The man's eyes briefly met his, then darted away.

Robert looked at the platter of roast beef. He supposed that this food, however it had come into being, was still a gift from the Lord. He helped himself, and it was quite as good as anything Mrs McDougal served.

~oOo~

Minerva tried to keep Robert occupied, but she had plenty of other duties to attend to, he knew, so he shooed her out of her rooms each morning, telling her he had his books — both the ones he'd brought and some she had on her shelves, probably got for his benefit — and the chess set. He hoped to play through Bobby Fischer's _My 60 Memorable Games during his enforced sojourn._

He'd thought his chess-playing days were done, thanks to his hands. The shaking made it hard to move the pieces around the board. The day after his arrival, he and Minerva had tried to play, and he'd managed to knock half the pieces from the board during his third move.

"How long has it been like this?" she asked.

"A few months now," he admitted.

"I didn't know. I'm sorry."

"You've no call to be sorry. It's not important. Mrs McGregor manages all the things these old paws can't."

"Are you able to play at all?"

"Sometimes. When the shaking's not so bad."

"Isn't there anything they can do?"

"The doctor gave me some pills. They didn't help much."

She sat blinking at him for a moment, then bent to pick up the chess pieces and set them on the table as he tried to hold his rebellious hands still in his lap. He wanted to get up, go to the lav or the bedroom, or something to get away from her pity, but his cane had slid to the ground with the chessmen, and he didn't want to ask her to get it for him. So he just sat there, humiliating tears stinging just behind his eyelids.

One of the hardest parts of growing old was the reversal of roles between oneself and one's children. His dear friend Hugh had cried like a bairn when he'd told Robert about his daughter taking away the keys to his beloved 1967 Jaguar XKE after he'd clipped a row of rubbish bins on the way home from the Tesco last year. Now, he complained, he had to rely on her just to get around.

_Hah. If only Hugh knew!_

Of course, Robert had felt that sort of helplessness for years now. His children had always been able to do things he couldn't, and he'd felt secretly at their mercy since the day Minerva had magicked _Moorland Mousie_ from the sitting room shelf. Being here in this castle only made it all worse. Every single person in it, down to the smallest firstie, had more power in his little finger than Robert McGonagall had ever had in his entire body.

"I have another chess set that might be better," Minerva said, pulling him from his thoughts.

"No use," he muttered.

She said nothing, but cleared the chess set off the table. She then went to the desk and pulled a box out of a lower drawer.

"This is a Wizard's Chess set," she said, setting the box down on the table. "The pieces will move as you command. Within the rules of the game, of course. The set is enchanted, so you don't need to do any magic to make it work."

Her smile was tentative and anxious, as if she expected him to rebuff her.

"Is the game played the same way?" he asked, and her eyes lit up.

"Exactly the same."

Goodness, but it was fun to play with an animated chess set!

After his black bishop had boxed in her white king and his knight had plunged its tiny sword through the king's heart, he sat back in satisfaction.

"You've got better since you were a girl," he remarked.

"But you still beat me," she said.

"Ah, your old father still has a few tricks up his sleeve you don't know about."

"You'll have to teach me some of them. Severus has beaten me too often lately."

"Severus?"

"Professor Snape. He was the man to my right at dinner last night."

"You play chess with him?"

This surprised him, somehow. He couldn't picture the man doing anything so pleasant as playing a game of chess. He practically radiated "Bah, humbug."

"We play when we have the chance," Minerva said. "He's entirely too fond of winning."

"He looks as if he isn't fond of much."

She snorted a laugh. "He does have a rather pessimistic outlook on things."

"And why is that?"

"He's had a difficult time. Partly due to his own choices, partly due to his circumstances."

_True for most of us, Robert thought._

"You're friends," he said.

"Yes."

Robert was glad to think of his daughter having a friend to play chess with. It had always been something he'd shared with her, but when she'd left Caithness, he'd thought she'd left it behind with all other non-magical pursuits. She'd been such a solitary little thing as a girl; her only friend in Keiss had been the McGregor boy. For a time, Robert had hoped she and young Dougal would marry, that somehow, she'd stay in Caithness. The Lord knew Robert loved his boys, but he'd always been closest to Minerva, his first-born, and her leaving, first for Hogwarts and then for London, had been a blow.

Then again, if she'd married Dougal, she might be the "beloved wife of" lying in her grave beside him. Robert doubted Minerva's magic could have saved her from the unholy blast that had demolished the McGregor farmhouse and its unlucky inhabitants. Magic certainly hadn't saved Rab or Isobel. Or Elphinstone, for that matter.

God had determined how they should all live and die, and no spell could change that. No prayer, either.

"Sit down," he said to Minerva. "Let's play again."


	3. Chapter 3

Severus Snape was an interesting choice of friend for Minerva, Robert mused. He watched the man at mealtimes in the Great Hall. He was younger than Robert had thought, but his perpetual scowl and the shadows under his eyes made him appear older at first glance. He looked as if he'd been ridden hard and put away wet, as Granny McGonagall used to say.

Although he observed the necessary politenesses, Professor Snape was sharp with the students and curt with the other staff at table. The only person he seemed to speak with of his own volition was Minerva.

_Interesting._

Minerva had a sort of hardness herself, although Robert had the sense that this old-young man had teeth and claws that Minerva had never developed, thank the Lord. But she had come by her own hardness naturally. His daughter was introspective, observant, and not effusive with her emotions. She was the one of his children who'd been most like himself, Robert thought. More than once it had worried him. A girl needed a little softness in this world, even in the upper reaches of Caithness. He'd been afraid she was destined to be a spinster, to live her life alone.

But she wasn't alone here, he realised. Far from it.

Hogwarts was a bit like his parish had been, he thought, with its different personalities and relationships, and Minerva was right in the middle of it all, just as he had been. Several staff had been round for drinks in the evening — that heavy-set fellow had brought the most marvellous bottle of whiskey Robert had ever had — and Minerva had been summoned from her bed to see to a sick child in the middle of the night on another occasion, just as he had often been called to minister to an ailing parishioner.

During the day, she worked, meeting with Dumbledore or the other staff, and doing whatever else it was that deputy heads did at a boarding school during the Christmas holiday. She made time to take her father out for walks around the Hogwarts grounds — slow, halting walks, thanks to his blasted cane.

It was during one of these walks that he first saw someone fly. They were coming into the courtyard when he felt a rush of air behind him.

He turned in time to see a boy on — was that a broomstick? — catch a ball, letting out a _whoop_! of triumph.

"Weasley!" Minerva shouted. "Mind how you go! Kindly take your game to the Quidditch pitch where it belongs."

The boy descended to where they stood and hopped from the — yes, it was a broomstick.

"Sorry, Professor. Only, Flint's on the pitch with Pucey and Avery."

"Surely there is space on the pitch for you and Mr Wood to join them rather than endangering the lives of pedestrians here? Or are three Slytherins enough to keep you from practicing in the location designated for it?"

The boy opened his mouth as if he were going to argue, but a look from Minerva silenced him.

"Right, Professor," he said. Robert followed the boy with his eyes as he hopped back on the broom and rose into the sky, whistling for his partner to follow him as he zoomed off.

Robert was still watching the horizon when Minerva said, "Sorry, Dad. They aren't supposed to be playing in the courtyard."

Robert shook his head to clear it. "What … er … what were they playing, exactly?"

"Quidditch. It's a bit like football, but on brooms and with more balls."

He had been about to ask her if everyone in her world rode about on broomsticks, but her comment about football piqued his interest. Footie was a passion, but he hadn't been to a match since Rob Jr had died.

"How is it played?" he asked.

"Well, … there's the Quaffle, you see, and the Chasers try to score goals with it. To do that, you have to get it past the Keeper and avoid the Bludgers. They're large, heavy balls that the Beaters try to hit you with. Meanwhile, the Seeker …"

The confused look on his face stopped her.

"I suppose you need to see it to understand it."

Two days later, she took him out to what looked like a football field, where a group of young men and women were waiting. She spoke to the ginger-haired boy from before, who nodded enthusiastically and started shouting orders at the others.

"I'm afraid I'll have to Levitate you to get you up into the stands," Minerva told Robert.

"Levitate? You mean fly me?"

"It just raises you in the air a little so you don't have to climb the stairs. It can feel a wee bit awkward at first, but it isn't dangerous."

Robert looked up into the stands, which were dotted by a few spectators, then back at the field. The students with broomsticks had divided into two groups, each gathered around one of the taller boys.

"This is a … a Quidditch game?"

"A casual game, yes. The House teams have some players staying over the holidays, and they agreed to put on a demonstration."

"Did you organise this for me?"

Minerva flushed. "I thought you might enjoy it."

He looked up into the stands again.

"Maybe this was a bad idea," she said.

"No, no, lass. It's a lovely idea. Let's try this … Levitating."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," he said, although he didn't feel sure at all.

After a moment, she withdrew her stick — _wand_, he reminded himself — and pointed it at him.

"_Levioso."_

An odd sort of warmth flowed through him, and suddenly there was nothing under his feet but air. It felt a bit like falling in reverse. His legs dangled helplessly, and he flailed his arms at the sensation of being displaced in space.

"It's all right, Dad, I won't let you fall. You'll find it less uncomfortable if you fold your arms in and flex your feet a little."

He followed her instructions and found she was right, but he still didn't like the feeling that his body was doing something outside his volition. A bit like his Parkinson's shakes, actually, and he didn't like those much, either.

"All right there?" Minerva asked.

"Yes."

She waved her wand again, and he began to float just above the stairs, upwards into the stands, Minerva following behind and below him. When they were halfway up, she lowered him gently to the ground.

"This will be a good vantage point," she said. They both sat, and she laid a rug across their legs against the frigid Highlands air.

"The ones flying highest are the Chasers," Minerva explained. "Wood has the Quaffle—that's the big ball—and he and the other Chasers are going to try to get closer to the other team's goalposts to put it through. Those players with the bats are the Beaters. They try to stop the Chasers from scoring by hitting the Bludger—that's the other ball—at them. Like that."

One of the Beaters had hit the ball at Wood, but the boy ducked it with a fancy manoeuvre of his broomstick, and one of his teammates sent the Bludger flying back at the other team with a mighty swipe of his bat. Meanwhile, Wood threw the Quaffle to a blonde girl. Robert gasped when she let go of her broomstick and reached out both arms, stretching out to her left to catch it. Her broom seemed to skid a bit mid-air, but the girl got control of it and raced off towards the goalposts, deftly ducking and zooming around the opposing team members.

She sailed the Quaffle low towards the goal, and the goalie — the Keeper, Minerva had called her—astonished Robert by flipping upside down on her broom and hanging by her legs like a gymnast to catch the ball. She righted herself and flung the Quaffle to a waiting teammate.

Robert let the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He thought he just might enjoy Quidditch.

The game moved far too quickly for Robert to follow completely, although Minerva tried to explain what was happening.

About ten minutes in, the long, dark form of Professor Snape came up the stairs towards them.

"Hello, Severus," Minerva said. "Are you joining us?"

"I came to offer these to Reverend McGonagall, but I suppose now that I'm here, I might as well stay and observe."

He took a seat next to Minerva and held out a pair of odd-looking binoculars, saying to Robert, "You may find these helpful in following the match. They will allow you to slow down and provide commentary on any plays you wish to examine more closely. Minerva disapproves of them, but most people find them agreeable."

Minerva ignored his smirk. "I don't disapprove of them. I simply don't like using them myself."

"And it didn't occur to you to borrow mine for your father?"

"Yes, because you're usually so gracious about lending out your things," she said.

Ignoring her, Snape said to Robert, "If you turn the eyepiece clockwise, it will slow down the action. Anticlockwise will replay the last ten seconds of the match."

"Thank you, Professor Snape."

The binoculars were wonderful. It was like having his own personal telly camera he could focus on any part of the field. Too bad he'd never had them for any Wick Groats games back when he'd still been able to get to a match.

Quidditch was fascinating, once he got the gist of it. Faster than football and almost as violent. He wasn't so wrapped up in the play that he missed the occasional exchanges between Minerva and Snape. They were acid and drily humorous, and tinged, he thought, with something a bit deeper than wit.

"I see there are no Slytherins on the pitch today," Snape said. "Afraid they'd show up your beloved cubs?"

"Hardly," Minerva sniffed. "Wood invited them, but they declined to play."

The lack of retort from Snape made Robert take his eyes away from the binocs to glance at him. His black brows were knit together, and his face was a thundercloud. Robert felt sorry for whomever would be on the receiving end of the storm brewing there.

The sky darkened, chilling them further, and Minerva did something with her wand that warmed the air around them. Robert had barely noticed the cold, so engrossed was he in the action on the field — or rather, in the air above the field.

The score was three goals each when one of the Bludgers hit a Chaser square on the shoulder, toppling her from a broom. Robert yelped aloud. Minerva and Professor Snape both jumped to their feet, wands already out. Whatever they did with them seemed to slow the girl's descent from lethal velocity to merely bone-shattering.

"I'll go," Snape said, and hurried down the stands to the field.

"Will she be all right?" Robert asked, aghast. His view of the injured player was obscured by the other students who had landed and gathered around her, but surely, she was gravely injured by the blow from the Bludger, if not the fall.

"She should be fine," Minerva said. "This sort of thing happens fairly often. Severus will make sure she's stable, and Poppy can mend broken bones easily."

She was rubbing her side unconsciously.

"You were injured, weren't you? Playing Quidditch?" Robert said. "I seem to remember a letter…"

"In my seventh year. Some broken ribs and a concussion. It's school policy to notify the parents when a student requires an overnight stay in the Hospital wing, but these injuries are much less serious than they are in the Muggle world."

Robert was suddenly thankful that he had had no idea of the dangers of the game Minerva had played in school. She had been like him in most ways, but she'd always had Isobel's thirst for physical challenge.

_And her courage, Robert thought as he looked at his daughter's cheeks, pinked with the cold or with excitement, or both._

"Look, they're resuming the game," she said.

They'd replaced the injured player, and the game continued. Wood's team scored two more goals, but a whistle from the student refereeing the game brought a groan from Minerva.

"What? What's happened?" Robert asked. The players were descending and dismounting their broomsticks.

"The game is over. Lam caught the Snitch."

"That little gold ball?"

"Yes."

"So Wood's team won."

"No."

"But his team scored more goals."

"The Snitch is worth one hundred and fifty points, so Lam's team beat them."

"That's preposterous!"

Minerva shrugged. "That's Quidditch."


	4. Chapter 4

Robert's eyes popped open to near-complete darkness. He turned his head, and for a moment he was confused not to see the illuminated face of his clock on the bedside table. Then he remembered where he was. His bladder made him aware of itself, and he groped for his cane. His hand found it leaning on the bed, and he pushed off the bedclothes and sat up.

Minerva had told him to wake her if he needed to get up in the night — she didn't want him trying to make his way in the dark alone and falling — but Robert didn't want to wake her just for a trip to the loo. It was only a few feet away.

He swung his feet over the side of the bed and felt for the matches. He struck one and lit the lantern.

He managed to get to the bathroom and back without incident. He was about to blow out the lantern when he heard voices from the sitting room.

Picking up his watch from the bedside table, he drew it into the lamplight and leant down to read it.

Four-thirty.

_Probably another student emergency, he thought._

He went to the door and opened it a crack.

Minerva was there in her dressing gown, speaking softly to another figure. They went to the door, and Robert was surprised to see his daughter kiss the other person before he slipped out.

She waved a hand and the candles in the sitting-room sconces went out. Robert heard her say, "_Lumos,"_ and the tip of her wand lit up, surrounding her face with its soft glow as it lit her way. She stopped when she saw him slivered in the bedroom doorway.

"Dad."

"Good morning."

Her hair was dishevelled in a way that confirmed his suspicions. Her hand moved nervously up to smooth it.

"Did I wake you?" she said. "I'm sorry."

"No, I had to use the loo. I heard voices."

"Here, I'll take you."

"No, I managed on my own."

Her lips thinned, about to scold him.

"Was that Professor Snape?" he asked.

She let out a soft breath.

"Yes."

"I thought so. You are … together, then?"

"Yes."

He nodded slowly. "I see."

"Do you?" she asked sharply.

"Contrary to all outward appearances, I am still a human being. I understand the need for a little companionship."

"But you disapprove."

"It isn't for me to approve or disapprove, Minerva. You're a grown woman. I'm a traditionalist and a father, so I could wish you had a ring on your finger, but if he makes you happy, I can't object."

She cocked her head as if trying to figure out a puzzle, then pulled her dressing gown tighter around herself.

"I'm going to make some tea," she said. "Do you want some, or will you go back to bed?"

"Tea sounds grand."

They sat at her small dining table, sipping the tea and not speaking. Eventually, the silence was too heavy to bear.

"How long have you and Professor Snape been seeing one another?"

"Two years."

"It's serious, then."

"I don't know."

"You've been together for two years and you don't know if it's serious?"

"It's … we have an arrangement."

"Do you love him?"

She put her cup down hard enough that it made the spoon jump in the saucer, startling him.

"We sleep together, when the spirit moves us. Does that clarify things for you?"

Her glare reminded him of her childhood strops, and he couldn't help chuckling.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. It's interesting, though."

"Interesting?"

"You're not ashamed of sleeping with a man half your age but you go to pieces when I mention love."

"I'm not … it isn't… … oh, never mind."

She stood and started clearing away the tea things.

A flustered Minerva. Well, well. He hadn't seen that for years and years. Angry, yes. Grief-stricken, certainly, but not flustered.

This Snape fellow had got under her skin. Robert hoped he was a good man with enough sense to see Minerva for the rare thing she was. She'd never been a great beauty — she was spare and sharp, but that was part of her grace. There was nothing superfluous about her, everything was exactly as it needed to be. She was never more or less than herself.

Severus Snape had better tread carefully with Minerva's heart, though, Robert thought.

_I may be an old man with no magic, but I'm still her father._


	5. Chapter 5

There was apparently a big fight after Christmas dinner.

The Great Hall had been beautifully decorated, the food had been delicious and plentiful, but there had been a tension at the table that even Dumbledore's joviality and studied dottiness couldn't suppress.

Minerva and Snape had exchanged wary glances all evening, and after dinner, Minerva had taken Robert back to her rooms and left again, saying she'd be back shortly.

She didn't return until after eleven.

"I'm sorry to be so late, Dad," she said as she came in and removed her heavy cloak. A piece of hair was hanging loose from her bun, and there appeared to be a scorch mark on the sleeve of her dress.

"Not to worry, lass, but is everything all right?"

"Not really, no," she said. "Five students are in the infirmary, and one has been sent to St Mungo's — the magical hospital in London."

"What happened?"

Minerva dropped into a chair with a huff.

"There was a duel between some of the students," She said. "It started with the Slytherins and the Gryffindors, but several Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs got involved, and it became a general magical melee. It took five staff to break it up, and Pomona ended up with a nasty hex. Everyone will be all right, thank goodness, but it was ugly."

"You, my girl, look like you could use a wee dram," Robert said.

"That's an excellent idea."

"I'd get it for you, but I'm afraid I'd just spill it everywhere," he said apologetically.

"No matter."

She got up and poured them both two fingers of Macallan.

The whisky warmed Robert's belly and loosened his tongue.

"What was the fight about?"

Minerva looked into her glass and swirled her drink before answering.

"There is tension between Slytherin and the other Houses. We've been trying to diffuse it for years, but … it gets stirred up."

"What's the tension about?"

Minerva sighed. "Some of it is just silly tradition. The Houses have always been competitive with one another. But some of it is related to the war."

For a moment, he thought she meant the last world war, but then he remembered that there had been another war in her world.

"You mean your people's war. The Wizarding one?" he said, and she nodded.

"Most of the students' families supported one side, but those in Slytherin tended to support the other," she said.

"Was that the enemy side?"

"Yes."

Robert watched her carefully as she downed the rest of her whiskey, went to the drinks trolley, and poured herself another dram.

"I've never asked you what you did in the war," he said. "I know I should have."

"It's all right, Dad."

"No, it isn't. Did you have to fight?"

"A few times."

Minerva's face resembled Isobel's suddenly. Robert had often caught his wife wearing a look of private melancholy. When she'd noticed him noticing, she'd always curl her mouth into the beautiful smile that had enchanted him so many years ago. But it pained him to know that he'd been the reason the smile had had a touch of sadness behind it. He'd never asked her about her sadness.

"Did you have to kill in the war?" he asked Minerva softly.

For a moment, he thought she wouldn't answer him, but she took a sip of her whiskey and spoke.

"Once."

"I'm sorry. I imagine it was difficult."

"It was not as difficult as I'd thought it would be."

She looked at him, her jaw rigid and eyes hard, almost as if challenging him to condemn her.

"I know that whatever you did, you did in the cause of right," he said.

He couldn't tell if the sound she made was laugh or sob.

"I'm glad you know it, then, because I'm not so sure," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't have to kill him, Dad. But I wanted to. So I did."

"Minerva …"

"It was right after Robert Jr. I wanted revenge."

_Rabbie._

"He… he died of natural causes. Some wizard's problem," Robert croaked.

She shook her head slowly. "He was murdered."

Robert's legs suddenly lost all strength, and he groped for a chair. One slid under him just as he began to collapse.

His drink fell from his hand. The heavy glass bounced on the carpet, splashing its amber liquid across his trouser cuffs.

"Are you all right, Dad?"

He took out a handkerchief and mopped his suddenly sweaty brow.

"Yes. It's just … just a shock." He stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. "Will you tell me what happened?"

She picked up Robert's glass and used her wand to clean the spilled whiskey from the carpet and his trousers. Then she pulled a chair next to his and sat down.

"I was working for the Order of the Phoenix. It was a secret organisation Albus created to fight the Death Eaters — the enemy — because he felt, a lot of us felt, the Ministry wasn't doing anything effective.

"I was a target because I was close to Dumbledore, but they couldn't get to me. So they killed Rab. He didn't have much magical protection, if any, on the house, and they found it. They used a Killing Curse. That's why there wasn't a mark on him, but they made certain I knew it was them. The same day, I made the manse Unplottable. That is, I made it so the Death Eaters couldn't find you, and I told Malcolm to do the same with his house.

"They tried for weeks, but they didn't find the manse. They found the village, though. A perfect spot for some Muggle-baiting, they must have thought. The farm and the crofts that burned that August? That was the Death Eaters."

Tears slid down her cheeks, and she wiped them away with her sleeve.

"So you see, it's my fault, Dad. Rab … the McGregors … the crofters … can you ever forgive me?"

Robert grasped her hands in his.

"It wasn't your fault, Minerva. You were not responsible for the actions of a pack of murderers."

She pulled her hands away and stood. "If I hadn't fought them, they would never have—"

"If you hadn't fought them, you wouldn't be the woman I raised you to be."

Robert got shakily to his feet and put a hand on her shoulder. "You always took up for the smaller ones, defended them. The number of times you came home with mud on your dress from getting in a scrape with some bully…" He chuckled softly. "Your mother and I were so proud of you for that. She was worried you might use your magic against them sometime, but I wasn't. I knew you'd never take an unfair advantage."

"I used magic against the Death Eater I killed," she said. "I nearly took his head off. It wasn't normally a lethal spell, but I wanted him to die in that moment. And he did."

She flopped down on the settee and put her face in her hands. Robert's knees creaked painfully as he sat down next to her.

"I was never in a war," he said. "Too young for the Great War, too old for the next, so I don't know what happens to a person in the heat of battle. But lots of men have come to me for spiritual guidance about things they did … things that happened to them in the war. And I know that it can bring out the best and the worst of the human spirit. Sometimes all at once. There's only one judge that matters, Minerva, and you have His love forever. And mine."

Neither he nor Minerva had ever been physically demonstrative, but some occasions called for it, so he put his arms around his daughter and hugged her to him.

She hugged him back for a few moments, then drew away. He handed her a handkerchief, and she wiped her eyes.

"Minerva," he said, looking into her damp, pale face. "Why have we never talked about any of this before?"

"This?"

"The war. Magic. Your life. My life … all of it. We were so close when you were small. How did we grow so apart?"

"Different lives, I suppose. I thought you were disappointed in me. For choosing magic."

"Oh, lass. I'm only sorry you felt you had to choose. I never made an effort to understand your world. I was afraid of it."

"You didn't think it was evil?"

"No. How could it be evil if it was part of you? Part of your mother and your brothers?"

"It can do great evil, though," she said.

"Any tool can be made to do evil when it's wielded by evil men."

She gave him a wan smile. "You sound like Albus."

"Well, he must be a great and wise man, then."

She laughed. "Sometimes."

Robert finished his whiskey. He gazed into the fire for a few moments, looking for shapes in the flames as he had since he was a boy.

"I'm glad you asked me to come," he said. "I wasn't at first, but now I am."

"I am too, Dad."

A small voice spoke in his head, the same one that had told him to join the kirk. The one that had told him to marry Isobel Ross. So he heeded it.

He said, "If you would, Minerva, I'd like you to pray with me. Give thanks to the Lord for this chance to get to know one another again before it's too late."

It was a few moments before she spoke.

"All right."

He took her hand, and they bowed their heads.

Robert led them in a general prayer of thanksgiving, and if Minerva stumbled over a few of the words, he tried not to notice.

After the final "Amen," the clock on Minerva's mantel began to chime.

It was midnight. Christmas day. A time of birth and hope for the world.

"Merry Christmas, Minerva."

"Merry Christmas, Dad."


End file.
